


Slow Burn

by cominginside



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-22
Updated: 2011-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 22:03:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cominginside/pseuds/cominginside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it takes Mike a while to figure things out, like the fact that maybe sleeping around with his teammates, no strings attached, isn't actually what he wants out of life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Burn

_one_

Mike hooks up with Nicky out of self defense, really. The team's in Tampa, and most of them have scattered to the bars after the game, soothing the sting of defeat. They don't have another game for a few days, so a lot of the guys are really taking advantage of it. Mike and Nicky had been right there with them until Nicky had been carded and turned back at the door. One of the major downsides to being in Florida is that the bouncers don't tend to give hockey players any special treatment, mostly because they barely recognize hockey as a sport. Alex had tried, he really had, but when the bouncer had told him to give up or get kicked out himself, he'd left Nicky to his own devices with a shrug and a wave.

"Fuck," Nicky says, pouting. "I could drink back home." He watches sadly as the girl he'd been flirting with in line disappears into the club without so much as a backwards glance.

With a last look at the bar, Mike slaps him on the shoulder bracingly. "C'mon, I'll keep you company," he says. It's not as much of a sacrifice as it could be, given the headache he can feel building. Humidity always does a number on him, and if Florida in the fall is better than Florida in the summer, it's not saying much. Fuckin' Florida. He texts Brooks to let him know where the hell the two of them have gone, because he doesn't trust Alex to inform anyone, and falls into step beside Nicky, ignoring his muttering.

On the trip back, he keeps an eye out for liquor stores, but all he manages to find is a tiny grocery store with a few bottles of beer jammed into the drinks cooler. He buys them, because it's better than nothing. They're gone within a few minutes of them getting back to their room, leaving them both a little buzzed but not even really tipsy. Somehow, that's even worse than being sober in this case.

The hotel's air conditioned, at least, and Mike sighs gratefully and lies back on his bed, closing his eyes and trying to figure out if a shower would make things better or worse. He can hear Nicky rustling around the room, sighing unhappily every few minutes.

"Stupid American laws," he says, and Mike makes a noise of agreement. He can remember being underage and hating it, and probably he spent a lot of time saying things about "the drinking age back home" to bored teammates.

There's a few more minutes of near silence, and Mike's just starting to feel the pressure in his head recede, and then Nicky--as far as Mike can tell--slams the closet door as hard as possible and says, "I mean, I am _almost_ 21."

Mike sighs and opens his eyes, sitting up just enough to see Nicky standing in the middle of the room with his shirt in his hand. "Pretty sure the rules don't work that way," he says.

"She would have blown me," Nicky says, accusingly, like somehow it's Mike's fault that the States have fucking stupid drinking laws, or that the bouncer actually followed them. He's running out of sympathy fast. He knows it's not really the drinking thing, or the girl thing, not entirely. They lost, and that fucking sucks, and Nicky had taken a penalty in the third, which is probably frustrating him. Mike knows how the "what if"s go. Still, Nicky's being a little bitch about it.

"If _I_ blow you, will you _stop bitching_?" Mike asks, exasperated. The offer isn't serious, not really, but Nicky stops what he's doing and looks at Mike with a strangely calculating expression.

"No," he says, after a minute. "I mean, you're probably not very good."

"Hey," Mike says, offended. He's not really sure if defending himself would actually work in his favour in this case, but he's already opened his mouth to say, "I give _great_ blow jobs, fuck you."

There's a long moment of awkward silence, during which Mike desperately wishes he could take back his words, or at least make them sound like a joke. If he'd ever planned on coming out to anyone on his team as not entirely straight--and he hadn't really planned on that, ever, he hasn't even told _Brooks_ \--this was not how he would have done it. Just before he's about to say something even more stupid to try to play the whole thing off, Nicky deliberately undoes his jeans and pushes them down a little, just until Mike can see his boxers clearly.

"Uh," he says, and Nicky gives him a challenging look.

"Prove it," he says.

Maybe Mike's more drunk than he realized, or maybe he's just feeling the frustration of the loss and wants to prove himself at _something_ , but he gets up and walks over and drops to his knees in front of Nicky. Once there, he pauses, trying to convince himself that he's about to fuck up everything, but before he can back out, Nicky's pushing his jeans down further and Mike, well. He kind of wants this. It's been a while, a long while, and he _likes_ going down on guys, a little more than he'd like to admit. So before he can talk himself out of it, he slides one hand up Nicky's thigh and into his boxers.

It's startling to realize that Nicky's half-hard, cock hot and heavy in Mike's hand. He strokes it a couple of times, settling back onto his heels to get a better angle, and risks a look upwards when Nicky gasps. His teammate's flushed pink all over, eyes wide and breath shallow. Mike looks away before he can make eye contact, not ready to see what Nicky's thinking. Instead, he focuses back on the cock in his hand, bringing Nicky to full hardness and psyching himself up for what's to come. Even though Mike likes giving head, there's that moment of knowing what he's about to do that's more terrifying than exciting.

"Fuck," Nicky breathes, and Mike goes for it, mostly so he has an excuse not to look up. It takes him a few seconds to figure out what he's doing; he's out of practice and he wants to live up to his bragging, after all. The first time he'd gone down on a guy, he'd been startled at how complicated it was--teeth out of the way (unless the guy likes it a little painful), cheeks hollowed, tongue doing whatever works best. With Nicky, he starts out simple, just sliding his cock into his mouth, getting it spit-slick and giving himself time to remember the advanced techniques. When Nicky's hips twitch forward, Mike brings up an arm to pin him to the closet door.

It isn't long before Mike's getting into it. He keeps up a steady pace with his hand while he focuses on the head, teasing Nicky with his tongue, light swirls and sudden solid pressure along the bottom, testing everything out. He licks across the tip and suddenly one of Nicky's hands is in his hair, gripping just tightly enough to be uncomfortable. Mike frowns and smacks Nicky on the leg until he relaxes a bit.

"Sorry," Nicky says. His voice is low and tense, and Mike's dick gives a twitch at the sound of it. He's starting to get pretty turned on himself, but he's determined to stay focused on the job at hand--well, in mouth.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, Mike forces himself to relax and takes more of Nicky in, hand sliding down to grip the base. Nicky's starting to leak precome, salty and starchy on Mike's tongue. He swallows it down and Nicky tugs his hair desperately.

"Mike, I'm gonna," he says, and Mike figures that he's already fucked enough that he may as well stay where he is and finish this off. He pulls back a little, enough that he can get his tongue back into action, and soon enough Nicky's making a choked noise and coming, a hot rush that Mike swallows. He licks up the last of it and sits back before Nicky gets oversensitized.

The enormity of what he's done hits him at the same time that Nicky slides down the closet door to sit across from Mike, looking stunned. Mike can feel the panic building up inside him, overwhelming both his arousal and the last bit of alcohol in his system with its intensity.

"Fuck, I don't--I," he says, looking at Nicky, then looking away quickly. He stares at the hotel carpet and tries to will himself to breathe, the room starting to go blurry around the edges as he freaks out.

"Mike," Nicky says, and Mike realizes he's hyperventilating. " _Mike_ ," Nicky says again. Suddenly he's sitting between Mike's knees, hands tilting his face until Mike has no choice but to look at him. "Breathe, please, Mike, stop this."

The fact that Nicky's more freaked out by Mike's panic attack than the fact that he'd just blown him on a hotel floor is enough to snap him out of the worst of it.

"I'm sorry," Mike says.

"The blow job wasn't _that_ bad," Nicky says, and it's a weak joke, but it works to break the tension and make Mike laugh.

"You're not--please don't tell anyone," Mike says anyway.

"If you don't want me to, I won't," Nicky says. "Promise." He sits back and crawls over to sit next to Mike, leaning against him companionably. "I mean, I'm good at secrets."

"OK," Mike says. "OK. Thanks. I just--you know."

Nicky nods. There's a long silence while Mike rides out the last of his fear, finally getting his breathing and heart rate back to normal.

"Well," Nicky says, eventually. "You did get me to stop bitching. That girl probably would have been better, though."

"Oh, blow me," Mike says, laughing.

"Maybe next time," Nicky says. "I think I do owe you one."

"I might hold you to that," Mike says. He wonders if Nicky's serious or not. He's kind of looking forward to finding out.

  
_two_   


Sasha comes on to Mike. It's kind of funny, in retrospect; Sasha's so generally clingy and flirtatious that Mike doesn't even notice it happening until he finds himself in a corner of the garage with Sasha's tongue in his mouth.

"Oh," he says, and apparently that's permission to continue, because Sasha kisses him again. Mike has just enough time to think, _this is probably a horrible idea_ , and then he kisses Sasha back, hands coming up to rest on Sasha's hips. It's a little strange--Sasha's not much taller than him, but Mike's not used to tilting his head _up_ to kiss someone, and for the first few seconds the sheer newness of it is all he can think about.

"Finally," Sasha says when they break apart. Mike blinks uselessly at him and Sasha just sighs and shakes his head. "Your place or mine?"

Later, Mike wonders how it is that that's one of the few English phrases that Sasha has down perfectly.

The question is rendered moot by the fact that Mike's the only one of them with an empty house; Sasha's mother is home, and even if Sasha handwaves Mike's concerns, Mike had enough of awkwardly hooking up while trying not to alert parents back in high school. Mike's place isn't ideal either--Brooks has a key, and even if he's good enough to knock most of the time, there's a lot of potential trauma there. Still, better Brooks than Sasha's mom, Mike thinks. Maybe.

Mike has just enough time to lock the door behind him before Sasha's pushing him against it, hands running up Mike's sides and along his shoulders. This time, Mike initiates the kiss, leaning in and biting Sasha's lip lightly, just enough to hear him gasp before Mike seals their mouths together. He drops his hands to Sasha's waist again, then slides them further back, fingers resting along the small of his back. When he starts tracing patterns through Sasha's shirt, little swirls and lines, Sasha moans and somehow manages to press closer to Mike and press back against his fingers simultaneously. Suddenly, Mike's had enough of the slow foreplay.

They've had years of experience to work around the language barrier--Sasha's not as bad at English as people tend to assume, and Mike's gotten pretty good at communicating via hand gestures--but this is new. Mike decides to forgo words in favour of just nodding Sasha towards his bedroom, figuring that if Sasha wants to take it more slowly, he can just not follow. Sasha follows easily, though, looking amused, mouth wet and pink and curled up at the corners. Mike kisses him again just outside the door, because he wants to and he can.

It doesn't take long for them to get their clothes off. Mike's seen Sasha naked before, obviously, but now he's got the time and permission to really _look_ , and he appreciates it. Sasha laughs as Mike looks him over, then reaches out and pulls Mike onto the bed, toppling down beside him. It's easy to bridge the distance and kiss Sasha, pressing up against him and gasping a little as their dicks brush. Sasha presses himself closer to Mike and wriggles around until they're thoroughly entangled, arms and legs and tongues. Mike's hips are shifting of their own accord, rubbing his cock against the surprisingly soft skin of Sasha's stomach. He goes with it when Sasha rolls them over so Mike's on top, thrusting a little more intensely when Sasha grabs his hips and gives him a rhythm to work with. Sasha's eyes are half-lidded and dark, his mouth even more swollen than it had been earlier. No one would have any doubt what he's been up to, should they see him like this, Mike thinks. Somehow that makes it even hotter, and he bends down to lick a stripe up Sasha's neck just to feel the heat of his blood beneath the surface.

They stay like that for a while, all friction and rhythm, mouths meeting in messy kisses before dipping to necks and shoulders, breath coming in short bursts. Mike bites Sasha's collar bone lightly and Sasha hisses, tightens his grip on Mike's hips enough that it almost hurts. It's good, the hot drag of Sasha's dick against his, good enough to keep going for a while, but Mike knows that it won't be enough to get him off. Right now he's good with that, content to just keep going and letting the feeling build. He wonders, vaguely, how far he could push this, what Sasha would let him do, but there's no real urgency to the thought.

Soon enough, though, he's starting to feel frustrated, everything too much and not enough, and he brings one of his hands up from the bed and licks it before wrapping it loosely around both of them. Beneath him, Sasha whines and arches up into it, and Mike jerks his hips down in response. The extra pressure is just what he needed, a little harder and rougher this way. Sasha's making little noises with every breath, half-moans and broken sounds, eyes flickering closed and open again with the rhythm Mike's setting. It's a good look for Sasha, flushed and messy, and Mike takes it all in even as he can feel himself losing focus on the world around them.

Suddenly, Sasha cries out, loud and wordless, and there's a hot splash of liquid across Mike's hand and dick. He shudders once, twice, and comes too, the sensation enough to push him over the edge, and has just enough coherency left to fall to the side of Sasha rather than bruising them both.

The room is nearly silent for a while, just the sounds of them breathing, harsh gasps fading into quiet sighs.

"Mm," Sasha says, eventually. Mike looks over at him as he stretches, looking incredibly pleased with himself, and laughs.

"Yeah," he agrees. Sasha smiles and kisses him again, soft and friendly.

Mike wonders if they should talk--should have talked before this, maybe, because he doesn't know exactly what Sasha's looking for here, a one time thing or friends with benefits or what. He also wants to know how the hell Sasha figured him out. Nicky had promised not to tell, and even though Nicky's sometimes a little unreliable, he'd never break a promise that important.

"How did--how did you know? I mean, that I'm," Mike says, and waves his hands, not in the right frame of mind to come up with an accurate label.

Sasha shrugs. "Didn't," he says. "Guessed. You... _look_ sometimes." Sasha shrugs again. "Not at me, but I thought, maybe?"

"Wow," Mike says. "Okay." He doesn't know how he feels about that. It would almost be easier to hear that Nicky had fucked up and let his secret out, because then at least he wouldn't have to worry about who else notices Mike _looking_.

Apparently his alarm shows on his face, because Sasha rolls his eyes and turns onto his side to face Mike properly. "No worrying," he says. "Not--" he gets that look that means he's trying to think of an English word, but Mike can't help because he has no idea what's coming next. Finally, Sasha gives up and just says, "Can't tell, not really."

As reassurances go, it's kind of lacking, but Mike will take it. He'll just have to be more careful in the future. Not that he has any idea who he was _looking_ at, but--he'll figure it out, and he'll stop. At least no one else has called him on it, he decides.

"So, are we--" he starts, switching from one awkward topic to the next. "You know."

"Fuck buddies?" Sasha says, looking gleeful at getting to use that particular phrase. Mike laughs.

"Yeah, I guess," he says. "I mean, I don't--" He doesn't know what to say. "I don't want to date you," makes him sound like a total asshole, but it's true.

Sasha cuts him off before he can say anything stupid. "No--what's that, no thread? No string?"

"No strings attached," Mike says.

"Yes, that. We're that."

That's what Mike was hoping to hear. Fuck buddies, no strings attached--that's what he wants right now.

At least, he's pretty sure that's what he wants.

  


_three_  


The "fuck buddies" thing actually works out really well for Mike. He'd kind of had something similar with Nicky, but that had faded out after a few months, the spark burning down until they'd gone back to just being friends and roommates. Sasha's different--more demanding than Nicky ever was, and more willing to experiment and push things. Mike's pretty happy to be getting laid on a regular basis, even if sometimes Sasha wears him out. He has no idea where Sasha finds the energy to climb on top of him after a long day of practicing and a game and a flight back home, but somehow Mike always manages to get it together enough to fuck him pretty thoroughly. It really is no strings attached; they're both having fun, but there's no real emotional component to it past their friendship. It's good, even if sometimes it's a little lonely.

Today's a rare true day off at home, and Mike's bored. His TV's on the fritz, so TV, movies, and video games are out of the question, and nothing else seems to be holding his attention. He spends a few minutes playing the drums, but he can't seem to get the beat right, and gives up in frustration before he breaks a stick or a cymbal. It's weird practicing without Brooks, anyway; they may not be good (Mike has no illusions about their future as rock stars), but they're better together than they are apart. He considers calling Brooks again, but he's already left him two voicemails and three texts about his boredom crisis and has gotten radio silence in reply, so he figures he should leave his teammate be for the time being.

A few minutes spent flipping through his contacts list don't result in any sort of epiphany on how to solve his restlessness. He knows what all his friends will say--come hang out, let's go out for food, let's see a movie--and none of them really appeal to him right now. He flips through the list again and pauses when he gets to Sasha. It's been a few days since they've hooked up, and while he isn't about to go out of his mind with desire or anything, Mike is always in favour of some good, no strings attached fucking.

There's no answer on Sasha's phone, but Mike's going to go crazy if he stays in his apartment, so he throws on some real clothes and hops in the car to go to Sasha's anyway. If he's there, great; if not, at least Mike's gotten a chance to go for a drive. He's managed to time it perfectly, slotting his trip in between the horrors of the DC area's near-endless rush hour traffic jams, and if he pushes the pedal a little more than he really should, well. He's used to regular adrenalin rushes. This boredom is probably just his system going into withdrawal.

He's still a little jittery by the time he reaches Sasha's place, even having taken the scenic route, and he bounces on his feet a bit as he rings the doorbell.

An Alexander _does_ open the door a minute or so later, but it's not the one Mike's expecting.

"Come on in," Alex Ovechkin says, stepping aside while Mike stares at him.

He shrugs and walks inside, closing the door behind him, then asks, "Is Sasha here?"

"No," Alex says. "He and his mother are out for afternoon."

"Oh," Mike says. He wonders why Alex is hanging out in Sasha's house alone, but he's not going to ask. "Uh."

"You here for booty call?" Alex asks, looking amused and leaning against the doorframe to the living room.

Mike tries not to blush and can feel himself failing. "No," he says, a little too quickly, and Alex laughs. Somehow Mike's not surprised that Alex knows; he's just glad that Alex apparently is cool with it, or at least, cool enough with it that he hasn't crushed Mike into a pulp during practice.

"Yeah you are," Alex says. "So was I."

"Wha--" Mike says, and then processes what Alex is saying. "Oh. Uh." He seems to be saying that a lot. He stares down at his boots for a minute, trying to figure out where the hell this conversation could possibly go that isn't incredibly awkward for everyone involved. Nothing's coming to mind so far, although he has decided that he needs new laces for his boots. The one on the right is nearly worn through.

Alex makes an amused noise and Mike looks up at him.

"I'm here, you're here, how about we don't need Sasha?" Alex says, looking Mike over thoroughly. "Use his bed, make him mad."

Mike just stares at him. He's pretty sure his captain is suggesting they hook up on their mutual booty call's bed, and there is just no way in hell he's prepared for this situation.

"If you want," Alex says, shrugging. He doesn't seem to see anything weird about the offer, or the fact that he's making it, and Mike opens and closes his mouth silently a couple of times.

He looks down the hallway, just to get away from the way Alex is looking at him. The boredom must be making him crazy, because he's seriously considering saying yes. It's a bad idea, probably a worse idea than hooking up with Nicky and Sasha _combined_ , but--it's _Alex_ , and now that Mike's started thinking about it, he knows he won't be able to stop wondering what hooking up with him would be like.

"Fine," he says, before his common sense can come back from wherever the hell it's disappeared to. "But you're the one who gets to tell Sasha."

From the grin Alex gives him, Mike suspects that this isn't so much something he's dreading.

Walking up the stairs to Sasha's room is a familiar route to Mike, which makes it all the more surreal to be following Alex up and not Sasha. There'd been some sort of mutual silent agreement that this would be a bedroom-only deal, and Alex had been on his way up the stairs before Mike had even finished toeing his boots off by the door. The silence is making Mike seriously question his own judgment, but he's not going to turn back now.

Alex is already taking off his shirt when Mike walks into Sasha's room. Mike's not surprised; Alex loses his shirt at any given opportunity. He takes off his own shirt with a bit less enthusiasm, tossing it into a corner, and tugs his pants off to avoid looking at Alex or thinking about how fucking _weird_ this is.

"This is weird," Alex says, startling Mike, who almost falls over, entangled in his jeans. Alex laughs and catches him by the shoulder, tilting him back upright. "No falling."

"Yeah, no, I just--" Mike says, and kicks his jeans off onto his shirt. They're both in just their underwear now, standing in the middle of Sasha's room, and Mike is having major doubts.

Alex gives him a long, thoughtful look, and just before Mike decides to say, " _What_ ," Alex leans in and kisses him. It's soft, softer than Mike had expected, and strange, the texture of Alex's facial hair a new sensation to Mike. He wonders if maybe he's not the only one finding this unsettling and kisses Alex back, gentle but not hesitant.

Apparently that's good enough for Alex, because Mike suddenly finds himself being hauled in closer, one of Alex's arms solid across his back, and the kiss deepens into something hot and intense. This is much more what Mike had thought kissing Alex would be like, in the last few minutes when that had been an actual thought in his life. Mike spends a few seconds trying to fight for dominance before he gives up and goes with it, letting Alex tilt his head back and lick into his mouth and press him close. The kiss is damn good, hot and focused and Mike is suddenly pretty sure that this is the greatest idea Alex has ever had. He moans when Alex tugs at his hair, not enough to pull him away, just enough to send shivers down Mike's spine. Alex laughs a little into his mouth and Mike presses for an advantage in the kiss, getting to know the inside of Alex's mouth, pressing his tongue into the space where his tooth had been. It's different the way that Alex's facial hair is different, the way that Alex's arms around him are different. Mike isn't about to forget who he's with any time soon.

It's not long before Alex breaks the kiss, loosening his hold on Mike and taking a half step back, just far enough that he can look Mike over. Mike's half-hard just from the kiss, and he's glad to see that Alex is too.

"Good start," Alex says, and Mike laughs a little, more of a huff of air than anything. Alex slides a hand down Mike's back, fingers slipping between Mike's boxer-briefs and his skin. "Next step, yes?"

"Yeah," Mike agrees, and Alex makes short work of their remaining clothes. He gives Mike a thorough look over once they're both naked, and Mike finds himself wanting to fidget just from the intensity of it. Finally, he gets annoyed and steps up against Alex, puts his hands on Alex's waist, and gently shoves him towards the bed. Alex raises an eyebrow and looks amused, but he doesn't try to take control of the situation again, just goes and sits down on the edge of Sasha's bed with an easy familiarity that makes Mike wonder just how often he's been here, naked. Mike and Sasha tend to fuck at Mike's place more than Sasha's place, and while Mike is familiar with this room, there's something--something _intimate_ about the way that Alex lies down and adjusts the pillows behind him. Mike's starting to wonder exactly where he fits in this equation.

Before he has a chance to overthink this, he walks over and climbs onto the bed next to Alex, who pulls Mike over to lie on top of him before Mike can even get comfortable. Alex kisses him again, just as intensely as before, and Mike puts aside thinking at all for later. Unsurprisingly, Alex is a handsy bastard, running his hands up Mike's back and down to cup his ass, fingers trailing along his spine and pressing against his ribs. It feels good, and Mike relaxes into the touch, letting go of tension he hadn't even realized he'd been holding onto.

"Better," Alex says after a few minutes, and flips them over so he's on top, thighs framing Mike's hips. Mike feels small, which is ridiculous; Alex isn't that much bigger than him. It's not a bad feeling, though--somehow Mike's actually finding this kind of hot, even though it's not what he's used to. Maybe it's _because_ it's not what he's used to.

They make out like that for a while, hips moving haphazardly against each other, and then suddenly Alex is moving down Mike's body, trailing open mouthed kisses as he goes. Mike starts to ask, "What--?", but Alex shuts him up with a look that says very clearly that Mike should not be asking questions when Alex's head is between his legs.

The first lick of Alex's tongue on Mike's dick is enough to rip a moan out of him, hips lifting off the bed a little, and Alex laughs and pins him down with a forearm. "No pushing," he says, and Mike just groans in response, because Alex's mouth is on his cock, hot and wet and _thorough_ , tongue darting everywhere. There's not a lot of finesse to Alex's style, but he's managing to hit all of Mike's favourite spots anyway, making him gasp and moan and whine in a way that would probably be embarrassing if he could bring himself to care. He's so caught up in the feeling of what Alex is doing with his mouth that it takes him a few seconds to register when one of Alex's fingers is suddenly next to his dick in Alex's mouth.

"Alex?" he says, and Alex just hums around his dick distractingly and pats him on the hip with his other hand. Mike figures it out when there's a sudden pressure against his ass and then Alex's finger is slipping in, just far enough that Mike freezes up completely.

"Wait, wait, Alex-- _wait_ ," he says, frantically, because he needs to know what Alex is planning. Alex pulls off his cock with an obscene slurping noise and looks at Mike.

"I not fuck you, don't worry," Alex says. "Just finger. Feel good."

"Uh," Mike says, and then, because he's on a roll when it comes to stupid decisions, says, "OK, fine."

The way Alex grins at him before sucking Mike's cock back into his mouth is not at all reassuring.

Even Alex's admittedly impressive blow job skills aren't enough to distract Mike from the fact that Alex has a _finger_ in Mike's _ass_ , but they certainly are helping him cope with the new sensation. He's been on the other end of this, of course, but Sasha's pretty firmly a bottom, and Mike's just never gotten this far with anyone else. It doesn't hurt, but it feels strange, and Mike really isn't sure why Alex is convinced that this is going to make things better. Obviously some guys get off on things going up their ass--Mike knows that from personal experience--but so far he doesn't seem to be one of them.

After a few minutes, he gets used to the feeling and relaxes enough for Alex to push his finger in further, moving slowly enough that Mike's okay with it. He's still giving Mike one of the better blow jobs of his life, thorough and messy, and Mike's willing to go with it even if he doesn't quite get it.

Then Alex crooks his finger and Mike nearly chokes him by jerking his hips into the air, yelling and clenching his hands in Sasha's overpriced comforter.

"Oh holy fuck, do that again," he says once he has words again, voice rough and breath short. He gets it now, thanks to the sparks that had apparently gone straight from Alex's finger into his dick. Why the _hell_ hadn't anyone ever done this before, he wonders, and then stops thinking altogether as Alex obeys his request and does it again.

It doesn't take long before Mike's basically thrashing around on the bed, Alex's arm the only thing keeping him from bucking up into Alex's mouth. He's _never_ had a blow job like this before, and he's been on the receiving end of a fuck of a lot of them. He's probably saying some pretty embarrassing things, but he really doesn't care as long as Alex doesn't stop.

Mike has just enough sense left to stutter out, "Alex, I'm gonna," but Alex just sucks harder and does the finger curl thing again, and Mike comes so hard that his vision blurs for a few seconds, back arching off the bed and breath stopping.

He collapses back down and lies there panting helplessly for a few minutes before he can even bring himself to tilt his head up and look at Alex. His captain looks so smug that Mike drops his head back onto the pillow, slightly embarrassed.

"That was hot," Alex says, and Mike's cock somehow manages to give the slightest twitch at the way Alex's voice sounds, raw and fucked out and pleased. Mike just grunts something vaguely agreeable in response and really hopes that Alex doesn't want him to reciprocate, because Mike's not sure he actually has bones or muscles anymore.

Luckily, Alex seems to be content to take care of things himself, and Mike watches shamelessly as Alex kneels next to him, jerking off with a sort of determined efficiency, hand moving in a quick rhythm along his dick. Alex looks up at him and grins just before he comes on Mike's stomach, making Mike yelp and squirm as the hot come hits him.

"Ugh," he says, but he doesn't really mind. If Alex wants to jerk off on him, he's pretty much earned the right at this point.

Alex flops down comfortably next to Mike, looking irritatingly pleased with himself. Mike makes a face at him and tries to work up the energy to get up and clean himself up and get dressed and leave before Sasha comes home. That all sounds like a lot of work, though, and he contents himself with flicking Alex in the arm.

"Thanks," he says when Alex opens his eyes.

"No problem," Alex says. "Was fun. Will be more fun to watch Sasha freak."

Mike really hopes that Alex has some idea what he's doing, and decides that--completely worn out or not--he's getting out of there before he gets dragged into this any more than he already has been.

"Greenie," Alex says from the bed as Mike pulls on his socks. Mike looks up. "Who else knows?"

"About me and Sasha?" Mike asks, confused.

"About _you_ ," Alex says.

"You, Sasha," Mike replies, not bothering to ask what Alex means. There's really only one thing he could be asking. "Nicky. That's it."

Alex makes a thoughtful noise and opens his eyes to look at Mike. "No one else? Not Brooksy?"

"No," Mike says. He doesn't really feel like having this conversation, especially when he has no idea what Alex wants from him.

"OK," Alex says, picking up on Mike's tone. "Bye." He waves lazily and closes his eyes again.

Mike leaves without a word. He's not bored anymore, at least, he thinks as he drives home, and ignores the way he still feels jittery.

  
_four_  


After the afternoon with Alex, Mike isn't all that surprised when Sasha ends things a couple of months later. He cuts Sasha off when Sasha stumbles over an apology and says, "No, it's cool, I get it. I hope you guys are happy together," and is rewarded with a bright, relieved smile.

"We are," Sasha says. He looks at Mike for a minute longer, thoughtful and--Mike thinks--slightly sad. "I hope you find happy."

Mike looks away, not really sure what to say to that. "Yeah," he says, finally, which isn't an answer at all.

"Have you--" Sasha starts, then stops and sighs. "You still _looking_ ," he says, and leans in and kisses Mike on the mouth, once, soft and final.

It takes Mike a while to figure out what Sasha means, sitting alone in his living room. _"You_ look _sometimes,"_ Sasha had said, that first time. The words are still there, in the back of Mike's head, but he'd let them slide and never really worked to figure out who he's apparently looking at. Maybe he should have tried harder, but--Mike doesn't want to know, somehow. Mike's gotten used to not being able to have what he wants, not when it comes to relationships, and sometimes it's better to not know what he wants in the first place. There might be a little ache in his chest sometimes, a restlessness under his skin that he can't place, but it's better than the alternative.

Still, leaving it be is a bit too much like inviting people to notice, so Mike spends the next couple of practices trying to figure out who the hell he's apparently "looking" at. All he gets is that thinking about it means he's probably not doing it, because he really has no idea. He looks at a lot of the guys, the same way all of them do--the ones he's talking to, the ones doing interviews, the ones noisily shedding their equipment into a pile. There are definitely a few people he looks at more than others, but it's not a _looking at_ kind of looking at. It's just that there are some teammates he talks to more than others, like Brooks and Nicky and Sasha. He catches Sasha looking back at him, just once, with that same thoughtful, slightly sad look, but Mike looks away before Sasha can do anything more than exchange glances with him.

In the end, it's a bust, and somehow that's even more frustrating to Mike than just leaving it alone was. He doesn't like to miss his goals, in hockey or in his life, and the fact that he's trying to figure out something about _himself_ makes it even worse. By the end of the week, he's tired and cranky and snappy with people who don't deserve it, and when he sees Sasha heading towards him with a concerned look, he ducks away and heads to his car without saying goodbye to anyone. They have practice again in the morning, and an afternoon game after that, and Mike just wants to go home and have another shower and go to sleep. He doesn't want to deal with Sasha suddenly playing yenta, because that is not what he needs right now. What he needs right now is to get the fuck over this stupid mental block and move on with his life.

Of course, once he's showered--and jerked off, because it's not like he's getting any these days--Mike finds himself too wired to sleep. He lies down anyway, but staring at the ceiling isn't helping his mental state, and he knows well enough to know that sleep isn't going to come any time soon. Eventually, he gives up, rolls over, and checks his phone, which has been doing the annoying "you have a text message" flash every few minutes for the last hour.

There are three texts: one from Alex and two from Brooks. Alex's just says _stop being dick_ and Mike deletes it without bothering to reply. Brooks's are, respectively, _Dinner?_ and, more recently, _You okay?_ , which Mike really doesn't know how to answer. Dinner sounds great, if only to distract him, so he texts back, _dinner offer still on_ and hits send before flopping back onto his pillow. The phone flashes a minute later, _Yeah, come on down_ , and Mike sighs and hauls himself out of bed. He considers getting dressed, but he'll just have to change back into his sleep pants later anyway, so he throws on a t-shirt and figures that if anyone in the building is scandalized by his attire, they can take it up with management.

Brooks doesn't even comment on his clothes or bare feet, just lets him in and says, "I made chicken," which Mike has already figured out. It smells great, and he's suddenly absolutely starving, so any real conversation gets put on hold while he devours what is probably about half a bird and even makes a dent in the broccoli.

"I swear, someday you'll live too far away to come over and eat all my food and you're going to starve to death," Brooks says, amused.

Mike makes a face at him and talks with his mouth full because he knows it grosses Brooks out. "I can cook. You can't even make real breakfasts."

Brooks just shakes his head. "Yeah, but you'll forget to grocery shop," he repeats. "You'll live off take out and starve to death and get fat at the same time."

The debate has been going on for years between him and Brooks, worn in and comfortable, and Mike finds himself relaxing without even realizing it. He catches Brooks giving him concerned glances a couple of times, but whether they're regarding his previous pissiness or his future starvation, Mike doesn't know. He's good like this, easy conversation and real food, Brooks digging through his freezer for the frozen yogurt that he swears he bought the last time he went shopping. Mike's not even sure he has room for dessert, but he's willing to give it a go when Brooks re-emerges triumphantly with a tiny container of cappucino frozen yogurt. Coffee is probably a bad idea this late at night, but it's also a delicious one.

Brooks spoons it into bowls and nods Mike towards the couch, grabbing spoons for them before he follows. Mike sits on his end, tucking his feet up against him, and watches Brooks eat for a while in silence.

"So," Brooks says, finally, fixing Mike with a look. "Want to tell me what's up?"

The thing is, Mike _does_. Brooks is pretty much his best friend around here, and Mike trusts him not to freak out or laugh. Hell, he'd probably tell Mike to stop worrying about it, and then keep an eye on him anyway, just in case he can figure out what's giving Mike away. It would be so easy to just tell him--maybe not in detail, but tell him the important bits. But when Mike opens his mouth, he's suddenly _terrified_ , terrified like he hasn't been since that night with Nicky, the first time he fucked up and let it slip that he maybe wasn't so straight after all. He tries to tell himself that he's being ridiculous, that it's just _Brooks_ \--

And suddenly everything slots into place inside his head, and he realizes who he's been _looking at_ , and why he's never told Brooks about any of this, and why Alex had asked about him. It's been Brooks the entire time, there in the back of Mike's head, Brooks that Mike's been wanting and not letting himself want. Not letting himself want because he's scared that he'll want and can't have, or worse, that somehow he'll scare Brooks off, lose him forever.

He sighs and takes a deep breath.

"Nothing, really," he says, and he's a good enough liar that he almost believes himself. "Just been kind of headachy and not sleeping well."

Brooks watches him for a moment and Mike forces himself to smile. "Seriously, sorry about being such a dick," he says. "That's really all it is."

"Okay," Brooks says, and stretches out his legs along the couch, nudging Mike in the thigh. "Have you talked to anyone about the headaches? Could be muscle strain."

"I think it's just the sleep thing," Mike says. "Which is probably caused by the headache thing. Vicious cycle."

"Tylenol before bed, maybe?" Brooks suggests, and Mike agrees that that sounds like a good idea, and wishes that lying wasn't making him feel sick.

He makes his escape a few minutes later, Brooks clapping him on the shoulder and saying, "Good luck, man," as he leaves.

When Mike gets back to his room, he sits down on the couch and stares a print on the wall, not really seeing it. He has no idea how to deal with his revelation. He almost wants to call Sasha, but it's late, and he doesn't know what he'd say anyway. "I'm in love with my best friend, how did you get it to work?"

In the end, he takes a Tylenol and goes to bed, but it's a long time before he falls asleep.

It's not that he plays _badly_ the next day--he does his job, passably, and even has a couple of great moments--but he's not playing as well as he should be. Bruce frowns at him a couple of times, but there are bigger problems than Mike's lack of focus, and in the end he barely gets a mention after the game. Brooks is giving him concerned looks, though, and for the second day in a row, Mike finds himself fleeing the arena in order to avoid a conversation he just doesn't want to have.

He means to talk to Brooks at some point--maybe not about everything, but at least work some stuff out, get some reassurance without ever telling the whole truth. He does. But Mike's shit at talking about his feelings even at the best of times, and this is so far beyond the best of times that he, well, panics. He panics, and he does horribly at practice the next day, and he runs away again before he can hear about it, or see the angry-worried-confused looks on people's faces. It's a stupid move, it's a whole _series_ of stupid moves, but Mike just. Cannot. Deal.

Going home is out of the question, and all of his usual haunts just make him think of Brooks and the team, so he just drives, out into the wilds of Virginia, or at least, the smaller suburbs and towns that orbit DC. This can't last. If he doesn't pull his shit together-- _fast_ \--he's going to fuck up everything good in his life. Not just Brooks, not just his place on the team, but probably the team itself, their chances this year, and his entire future with the NHL. There's no breaks for mental breakdowns. The league is a machine, well-oiled and emotionless, and it's not going to stop just because Mike's freaking out.

He ends up at a Starbucks in some strip mall shopping center, listening to the old guys at the next table argue football. No one here seems to recognize him, for which he's grateful. He gives himself an hour to sulk and mope and panic and shove it all down inside of him until maybe he can figure out a way to deal with this. The whole thing seems absurd, surreal even, now that he's away from it. Even if he can't tell Brooks the entire truth--and he can't--he can at least tell him part of it, explain away his stupidity and start to get things back to normal. It'll suck for a while, learning to deal with his newfound emotions, but he's survived uncomfortable feelings before and he'll survive this too. If he's lucky, he'll even get over it.

The drive back is hell, traffic on 95 basically at a standstill, and what should have been a 45 minute drive turns into nearly two hours on the road. By the time he gets home, Mike's too exhausted to do anything more than strip down and pass out, the caffeine in his system no match for the stress and lack of sleep.

When he turns on his phone the next morning, it nearly vibrates out of his hand, and his inbox angrily informs him that it is _full_ and he should clean it out _immediately_. There are texts from about half the team, some annoyed, most concerned, and more than half of them are from Brooks. He clears out most of them and sends a mass text to let everyone know that he's fine, he just fell asleep early, because the latter few sound like they're on the verge of starting a search party. The missed calls--ten of them--are from Brooks (seven), Bruce (one, which Mike is dreading), and Alex (two). He goes to listen to them, then decides that he needs breakfast and coffee in him before he's even remotely capable of dealing with this.

Not surprisingly, Bruce is _pissed_. Mike has a feeling he's going to be worked to exhaustion during practice, possibly until he retires, and maybe not even then. Alex isn't happy either, but while the first message is Angry Captain, the second message is closer to concerned friend. They both make Mike feel like shit.

He saves Brooks's for last. They're the hardest to listen to--there's none of the anger or frustration, just sincere alarm and concern, and Mike can't even listen to them after he hears Brooks say, "Listen, whatever you're going through--just please call me, I want to help, I don't care what it is, call me." He deletes the last two unheard and puts down his phone with shaking hands.

Mike had always expected his life to be, if not _easy_ , than at least straightforward. Getting into the NHL was a dream come true, even with the exhausting schedule and inevitable letdowns. He'd always thought that that would be the one big unusual thing in his life, that other than that he'd just be pretty normal, get married eventually, maybe have some kids somewhere down the line. Live a bachelor's life in DC, fast cars and expensive technology. Even though he'd known for a long time that he was attracted to guys just as much as women, it had never really been a _thing_. He'd been able to ignore it, for the most part, and even when he couldn't, it had never been something overwhelming and complicated.

Until Brooks.

Looking back, Mike can see everything a lot more clearly. He'd liked Brooks from the beginning--everyone had, Brooks is that kind of guy, but he and Mike had just _clicked_. Maybe it was the Prairies thing, maybe it was the music thing, maybe it was just _them_ , but whatever it was, it had been nearly immediate. Mike hadn't even thought for a second about saying no when Brooks had offered his guest room, or when the super had mentioned another apartment opening up. It had just seemed right, being able to walk down to Brooks's place whenever he wanted. They both had keys to each other's apartments, although Mike still slept over more often than not when he locked himself out. It was tradition, now, crashing for the night and eating cereal in the morning, getting in some band practice before hockey practice.

The little things all add up in Mike's head--the way he goes along with Brooks's crazy plans about the band, the way Brooks brings over weird green food for his fridge, the cereal in the mornings, the coffee the way Mike likes it, the movies that they never agree on but both watch anyway. It all makes Mike's heart twist painfully in his chest, these things he could lose if he fucks this up. He's already fucking it up by not talking to Brooks, he knows that, so he takes a deep breath and picks up his phone again and tries to sound like he's okay when he says, "Hey, sorry, I'm just...can we talk?"

Brooks shows up a couple minutes later, in the t-shirt and sweats he sleeps in, slippers on his feet, and Mike feels guilty all over again for freaking him out so badly. He hugs Mike tightly for a few seconds before he even closes the door, then pushes him away and stares at him and says, "Don't ever disappear like that again or I will kick your ass _so hard_."

"Sorry," Mike says, "I'm so sorry, I meant to call, but--I fell asleep." It's the truth, sort of, but it feels like lying. Mike's sick of lying.

Brooks sighs and squeezes Mike's shoulder before walking over to the couch and saying, "You said something about talking?"

"Yeah," Mike says, dropping onto the other end of the couch. He picks at the fraying upholstery where he'd caught it with some velcro last year and doesn't look at Brooks. "Look, I've been--I've been a total asshole this week, and I'm really sorry about that. There's just been some, um, some stuff I've been going through, and I've, uh, I've been dealing badly." He almost glances up, but he knows what Brooks will look like: sincere concern, eyebrows drawn in and eyes sympathetic. Right now, that's more than Mike can deal with.

"It's okay," Brooks says. "I mean, yeah, you've been a complete dick, but I kinda figured shit was going down, you know? I just--I want to help, if I can."

"Yeah, I know," Mike says. He fidgets for a few moments, trying to figure out what the hell to say. Brooks is patiently silent, which is somehow making this worse. If he were angry, than maybe Mike could just get angry back and blurt it all out and deal with the consequences later. That's how he works best.

"I, uh. Can you promise not to tell anyone about this?" Mike says, looking up for the first time. Brooks looks confused, but he nods.

"Of course. I'll keep your secrets."

Mike laughs, because, yeah. Of course Brooks will. Brooks is a good guy like that.

"Yeah, okay," Mike says. "The thing is--I, uh, I like guys."

He doesn't know exactly what he's been expecting, but there's a minute of silence, and then Brooks says, gently, "Is that it?"

Mike looks at him. Brooks looks--well, a little worried, but also a little relieved, like maybe if that was all Mike was freaking out about, then it'll all be okay. Mike wishes that were it.

"There's this guy," Mike says, looking down again, in case Brooks can read the truth in the way Mike's looking at him. "I really like him, but--we're friends, y'know? And I'm pretty sure he's straight, and I don't want to fuck things up, and it's been kind of sudden, and I just--I just don't know what the fuck I'm doing, at all."

"OK," Brooks says. "Is--can I ask? Is it Sasha?"

"What?" Mike says, startled. "No, it's not--Alex would kill me. It's not Sasha."

"Good, because--oh, you know about him and Alex," Brooks says, and Mike nods. He thinks about the way Sasha had looked when he'd told Mike, pleased and a little embarrassed.

"Yeah, Sasha told me," he says. "Wait, _you_ know about them?"

Brooks shrugs, looking a little uncomfortable. "I, uh, I overheard some things, and then walked in on something, and, well. They're not very good at being subtle. They seem happy, though." He sounds happy for them.

It's hard for Mike to figure out how to feel about that. He hadn't expected Brooks to be an asshole about the whole Mike's-into-guys thing, but somehow there's a difference between knowing that Brooks won't be a dick about it and hearing him sound genuinely pleased that Alex and Sasha found each other. Somewhere inside Mike, a tiny spark of hope grows bigger. He hates it.

"Yeah, they're--they're good for each other," he says, a bit vacantly.

"Well, now that I know that I don't have to start keeping an eye on Alex," Brooks says, and then pauses. Mike looks at him, still trying to figure out what he's going to say to spin this off into something they can both forget about. Brooks--Brooks is watching him, eyes dark and focused and a little--sad?

"I really hope you're wrong about this guy being straight," Brooks tells him. "Because you should be happy."

Mike has no idea how to respond to that. The irony is physically painful, his chest aching with the desire to just lay it all out and hope for the best.

"Me too," he says, finally. "But I'm not going to risk it to find out."

There's a shifting sound, and suddenly Brooks is right next to him, one arm across Mike's shoulders and a hand in his hair. "Seriously," he says, while Mike is busy trying to breathe normally, "any guy would be lucky to have you. I don't care if I sound weird saying that, it's true."

He ruffles Mike's hair affectionately and moves to stand up, but Mike grabs his arm to stop him.

"It's you," Mike says, and then feels like he's about to pass out, or vomit, or maybe just die, right there on his couch.

"What?" Brooks says, staring at him blankly.

For a few seconds, Mike thinks that maybe he can play it off as a joke, or come up with some excuse about not finishing a sentence, but then Brooks is sitting back down and turning Mike's face to look at him.

"Mike," he says, softly, and Mike closes his eyes because _he can't deal with this_. "Mike, look at me. Please."

When he does, Brooks is looking at him intently. There's no disgust in his eyes, no sign of an impending freak out, just surprise. Mike breathes in, sharply, and lets it out in a sigh.

"I'm sorry," he says, because somehow it feels like he's done something wrong.

"No, don't be," Brooks says. "I don't--Mike, this is a bad idea."

Mike has no idea what he's talking about until Brooks leans in and kisses him. It's soft, and tentative, and something inside Mike breaks open and he's terrified and giddy and relieved all at once. He doesn't even get it together enough to kiss back before Brooks is pulling away, and Mike sees everything he's feeling reflected back to him.

"Oh," Mike says. "No, that's a great idea." He tries to lean in again, but Brooks holds him back.

"We're teammates," Brooks says. "And friends."

"So are Alex and Sasha," Mike points out. Everything he wants is _so close_. If Brooks backs out now, turns all moralistic on him, Mike doesn't know what he'll do.

"Well, yes, but--"

Mike pushes past Brooks's hold on his arm and kisses him again, harder this time, like he can kiss Brooks into understanding that when Mike had said, "there's this guy I really like", he'd meant, "there's this guy and I don't know how I'm supposed to live without him." Because that's it--that's the thing Mike's been even more scared of admitting to himself, that this isn't just a physical thing or a stupid crush, that it's deeper and scarier than that.

Maybe he succeeds, or maybe Brooks hadn't really believed his own words, because he doesn't try to argue any further, just kisses Mike back, warm and thorough and _Brooks_. There's a spark there, something new and fragile and yet so strong that Mike is almost overwhelmed by it, and he thinks, oh, this is what was missing, because he hadn't even realized that anything was until now.

"Brooks," he says, when they break apart. "I--this isn't casual, this is serious, I'm really seriously in love with you." He hadn't meant to say it like that, hadn't meant to admit that last part, the part he'd only just realized himself, but it's out there now and Mike thinks he might be okay with that, because Brooks is looking at him like he gets it.

"I know," Brooks says. "I'm--I'm not quite there yet, but I think I will be. And I'm serious, too. I wouldn't risk everything on something casual."

It's not a romance movie response, but Mike thinks this is better, honest and _real_ and full of hope.

"Good," he says, "because I'm pretty sure I'm never letting you go." He pauses. "Now can we please get back to this making out thing before I start sounding any more like a shitty romance movie?"

Brooks laughs and kisses him again, and it's just as good as the first time, better even, and Mike feels it all over, little flashes of warmth and want under his skin. He tugs Brooks towards him until they're half-lying on the couch, Mike's arms around Brooks's shoulders, Brooks bracing himself above Mike with one hand and stroking Mike's cheek with the other. It's the kind of touch that Mike would have once dismissed as girly, but he gets it now, he really does. He wants to know Brooks inside and out, every inch of his skin and everything that makes him who he is, and the thought is overwhelming and exhilarating all at once.

Mostly, though, he wants to be naked with Brooks right now, because even if Mike hadn't always been aware that he'd been wanting this forever, he's aware of that now and waiting seems like torture.

"Bedroom, please, now," he says, and Brooks laughs and sits up.

"I guess we're not taking this slow," he says, and then, "No, it's okay, I don't want to--bedroom, now, yes," when Mike starts to worry that maybe he's pushing things too fast.

They take forever to make it from the couch to Mike's room, because now that they've started kissing, it's like they can't stop. Mike's learning the taste of Brooks's mouth, the way his lips fit against Mike's, the heat of his hands on Mike's face, neck, back, hips. All of this gets stored somewhere, little inconsequential things that mean everything to him. He hadn't even realized just how good this could be, too busy being scared of what would happen if it went bad to even start to think about how it could be if it _didn't_. He's incredibly thankful that he gets to find out.

Once they get inside Mike's bedroom, everything speeds up. Mike ends up pressed against the wall near his door, Brooks licking at his pulse point, Mike's hands tight on Brooks's hips. They fit together perfectly, just the right heights, and Mike loves it, loves the way he can look Brooks in the eyes as he tugs Brooks's shirt over his head. More than that, Mike loves the way that Brooks is looking at him, surprised and affectionate and _hot_. It's enough to make Mike think that this might work out after all.

As soon as Brooks is shirtless, Mike presses his hands to the expanse of skin, warm beneath his fingers. He traces along the scars and scrapes and bruises, thinks _elbow, stick handle, skate, stick blade, shoulder_. Their profession leaves its marks.

Mike thinks about picking up the pace and pushing this further, but just in case this never happens again, he wants to remember it _all_. Brooks seems to get this, content to stand still and let Mike explore him, breath catching when Mike hits a recent bruise on his shoulder, still tender to the touch. Impulsively, Mike bends and kisses it gently. Brooks laughs a little, but not mockingly--if anything, with slight self-deprecation, like he shouldn't have the bruise in the first place.

"C'mon," he says, pulling Mike back up to face him. "You're overdressed."

Mike's only in the t-shirt and boxers he threw on before breakfast this morning, but he's not going to complain if Brooks wants him in less. He strips off his t-shirt and tosses it into the pile of laundry in the corner, feeling weirdly self-conscious about the whole thing. It's a little ridiculous, given how often they've seen each other naked, but he's never felt this on display before. Either Brooks doesn't notice Mike's sudden case of the nerves or he's choosing to ignore it, because he slides his hands down to Mike's hips and tugs him closer until they're pressed up against each other again. The feeling of Brooks's skin warm against his is amazing, Mike thinks, and he bets it'll only get better when they're both naked.

Like this, he can feel Brooks hard against his hip, proof that Mike's not the only one who's into this. He shifts against Brooks a little, just to feel, and Brooks hisses and tightens his grip on Mike's hips.

"Okay, bed, now," Brooks says, steering Mike in that direction.

"But--" Mike says, and Brooks stops, looking at him intently.

"Mike," he says, "are you trying to take this slow because that's how you want it, or is it just that you're afraid that I'm going to suddenly change my mind if you push for more?"

Sometimes Mike forgets just how well Brooks knows him. He shrugs a little awkwardly. "Both, kind of," he admits.

Brooks sighs and kisses Mike firmly. "Do you really think I'd be doing this if I weren't sure?"

"Well," Mike says, and Brooks rolls his eyes and shoves Mike back onto his bed. Mike yelps in an undignified way as he falls, bouncing slightly as he lands.

"Stop thinking so much," Brooks says. "Seriously, that is not something I have ever expected to say to you."

"Hey," Mike says, offended, but Brooks flops down next to him and pulls him over to kiss before he can properly lodge a complaint. It's kind of hard to keep being annoyed when Brooks is licking at his mouth and running his hand up and down Mike's side.

They're still taking it slow, but somehow Brooks has taken over, pressing Mike down into the bed as they make out, tilting Mike's head up to lick at his neck and make Mike whine and grab at whatever parts of Brooks he can reach. Brooks bites him lightly when Mike accidentally digs his nails in, causing Mike to gasp and jerk up towards Brooks. Brooks groans and shoves down against him, dick hard and hot even through the sweats he's still wearing. Feeling it makes Mike wonder why he's so intent on taking things slowly.

"Pants off now," Mike says, desperately, and shoves at the waistband of Brooks's pants until Brooks takes pity on him and sits up to take them off.

Mike had fully intended to take his own boxers off while he wasn't otherwise occupied, but he only gets as far as hooking his thumbs into the elastic before he gets completely derailed by the sight of Brooks's cock, hard and pink-tipped and shiny and _right there_. It sends a thrill through him to realize that he's the one that caused this, and he licks his lips without thinking about it.

"Oh fuck," Brooks says, and Mike snaps his eyes up to see Brooks staring at his mouth with the kind of intensity he usually reserves for the ice. Mike licks his lips again and watches as Brooks's hands clench slightly at his sides. He figures that's good enough as permission and scrambles over to where Brooks is sitting, boxers forgotten.

Brooks's dick is heavy and hot in Mike's hand, blood thrumming beneath the soft skin, and Mike gives it a few strokes before he leans down and licks it, mouth watering even at the _idea_ of tasting Brooks like this. He hears Brooks groan above him as he licks his lips and slides further down, sucking on the head and pressing his tongue against the base. Brooks winds his fingers in Mike's hair, not pushing, just holding on, and it sends shivers down Mike's spine. He's starting to think he has a bit of a thing for hair-pulling.

He's a bit out of practice at sucking cock, but he's still got a pretty solid set of tricks, and it's not long before Brooks is barely holding back from just shoving his dick down Mike's throat. Mike's enjoying himself so much that he doesn't even care that his own dick has so far gone untouched--the taste and feeling and sound of Brooks all around him are enough to make him forget about his own needs. He's never heard Brooks say his name the way he's saying it now, low and rough and desperate, and Mike's pretty sure that he'll hear echoes of it from now on. He's okay with that, even if it means some awkwardness in the change room and showers.

"Mike," Brooks says, and tugs on his hair until Mike stops what he's doing and pulls back. Brooks is dark-eyed and panting and he takes a few seconds to run his hand through Mike's hair before saying, "I want more."

"Oh," Mike says, and then, "Yes, yeah, please." He doesn't think to ask what "more" means, because right now he's pretty sure that he's up for whatever Brooks wants. It's kind of scary, that kind of trust--he hadn't had it before, not even with Sasha.

Mike ends up naked on his back with Brooks above him, and if he'd thought it felt good before, it feels so much better now. Brooks grins down at him and Mike wraps his arms around Brook's waist to pull him in for a kiss. It's been a long time since Mike's taken this much time to just make out with someone, and it makes him smile. Still, when Brooks presses down against him and Mike's dick nudges up against his, Mike decides it's time to pick things up a bit.

"Brooks," he says, but Brooks just licks away whatever he was going to say next and slides a hand down to grasp Mike's cock, a little rough and absolutely perfect. He jerks Mike off for a few minutes, working out the angle of it and the things that make Mike beg, until Mike's just chanting, "please, please, please," without even knowing what he's asking for. _More_ , whatever that is.

"Mike," Brooks says, stopping and waiting for Mike to come back to Earth and focus on him.

Mike blinks a few times and manages a rough, "Yeah?"

"What do you want?"

It takes Mike a few seconds to get his brain working enough to understand the question, much less come up with an answer. "Everything," he says, honestly, looking Brooks in the eye just to watch the way his pupils dilate.

"Fuck, Mike," Brooks breathes, and Mike laughs and says, "Yeah, that."

For a moment it looks like Brooks is having second thoughts. Mike freezes up and waits, worried that if he does anything Brooks will change his mind, but Brooks just leans down and kisses him hot and filthy until Mike's arching up against him and whining. Brooks squeezes his dick once and sits up, looking around Mike's room a little wildly.

"Do you--"

"Second drawer at the back," Mike says, taking the respite to get his breathing back to something resembling normal. He keeps expecting some kind of fear to set in--what he's asking for isn't something he's ever done before--but instead he's just filled with anticipation. Suddenly, he wonders what Brooks has done in the past. He's certainly confident enough that Mike's sure this isn't his first time with a guy, but he wants to know.

"Brooks? Have you done this before?" he asks, tilting his head to see Brooks.

Brooks stops what he's doing and looks up at Mike. "Fuck a guy?" he asks. "Nope. I hadn't--you're pretty much my first, here, Mike. For anything past making out."

The words swirl in Mike's head, making him feel giddy and a little worried. He'd kind of assumed that Brooks had _some_ experience; now he's wondering if he could have done anything better.

"And it's been pretty fucking great," Brooks continues, and Mike lets out a little sigh, figuring that he's done okay. Next time will be better, he tells himself.

"Have you?" Brooks asks.

"I've fucked a guy," Mike says, figuring that honesty is probably the best policy here. "Never, uh, been fucked, though."

Brooks looks like he wants to ask, but he just says, "Guess we'll figure this out together." It makes Mike feel hot and squirmy inside, and he grins at Brooks as Brooks goes back to digging through his bedside table. The lube and condoms are jammed pretty far back, mostly because Mike hasn't been using them at all recently. Somehow his sex life kind of took a nosedive after Sasha, even though he's never had any problems picking up women to sleep with. He just hadn't wanted to. In retrospect, maybe he should have realized something was up a little faster than he had.

"I should probably warn you that it's been a while since I've slept with _anyone_ ," Brooks says once he's back next to Mike on the bed. "So--talk me through it? Let me know if I'm fucking up."

"Okay," Mike says, lying back and spreading his legs. He's never felt this vulnerable before; he's surprised at how much of a turn-on it is.

The lube is cold when Brooks first touches him and Mike hisses a little, then says, "No, keep going, just--it's cold," when Brooks freezes up. It gets better quickly, slicker than the spit from when Alex had done this, months before. It's a lot easier for Mike to relax this time around, although how much of that is past experience and how much is just that he trusts Brooks more than he trusts Alex, he doesn't know. Either way, it's not long before Brooks is up to two fingers, which feels weird, but good. Mike doesn't have much to say in the way of directions, just lots of reassurances. Brooks is taking things slowly enough that it's driving Mike a bit crazy, but at the same time, he appreciates the care Brooks is taking, even if it is just nerves.

"Mm," he says as Brooks hits the sweet spot inside him. His dick, which has been kind of out of play for a while, is definitely interested again, and he reaches down to stroke himself a couple of times. "Yeah, that's good. Maybe--like, spread them?" he says, trying to remember Sasha's instructions to him back in the day. "And--probably a third finger, yeah, that's good. Fuck!" The last bit comes when Brooks twists his fingers and spreads them, stretching him in a way that feels _good_. Mike is suddenly starting to get Sasha's preference for bottoming.

"Mike," Brooks says, his voice tight, "you good?"

"Yeah, yeah," Mike says, and takes a couple deep breaths as Brooks pulls his fingers out and opens the condom. "C'mere." He pulls Brooks down for a kiss before they get any further, just to reconnect with him.

"You're sure about this, right?" Brooks asks, like Mike's some virgin teenager who might suddenly panic and back out. Mike fixes him with his best _what the fuck_ glare and Brooks shrugs a little self-consciously. "Just checking."

"Brooks Laich, fuck me right now or I will flip us over and take care of this myself," Mike says. He means it, too.

To his credit, Brooks doesn't ask again, just takes a deep breath and lines himself up between Mike's legs. He's biting his lip and Mike realizes that maybe he should ask, too, because this was his idea, but instead he just reaches up and runs his thumb along the edge of Brooks's mouth until Brooks looks down at him and smiles warmly. Something in Mike goes all warm and tingly and he grins back.

"Hurry the fuck up," he says, and Brooks shakes his head, and suddenly there's pressure and then Brooks is inside him, hot and solid and Mike stops breathing. It's not just the feeling, which is new and weird and, he thinks, is about to get pretty damn good; it's _everything_ , the entire night and the look of awe on Brooks's face and the way that Mike feels _right_ in a way he usually associates with that perfect shot on the ice.

" _Oh_ ," says Brooks, looking like he might be there too, and all Mike can do is look at him, eyes wide and breath shallow.

The moment breaks when Brooks moves, but the feeling of rightness is still there, just overwhelmed by how fucking _good_ it feels as Brooks pushes into him, the hot drag of his dick inside Mike enough to make Mike moan and arch up off the bed. He clutches at Brooks's shoulders and spreads his legs a little further, just enough to give him the leverage he needs to thrust back against Brooks. Above him, Brooks swears and jerks his hips, making Mike gasp.

Mike's cock is hard and leaking against his stomach and he slides a hand down his chest to grab it, not so much jerking himself off as just holding on as Brooks fucks him. It's hot and steady and just slow enough that Mike wants _more faster harder please_ , but even begging isn't working, Brooks just keeps it up until Mike is squirming and shoving himself onto Brooks's cock as much as he can. He's digging his fingers into Brooks's shoulder hard enough that Mike's sure he's going to have little fingerprint bruises pressed into his skin for the next week, but Brooks doesn't seem to notice or care. His eyes are dark, pupils blown so wide that there's just this little halo of blue at the edges, and he's looking at Mike with breath-taking intensity and when Mike stops shutting his eyes and starts looking back suddenly the slow pace doesn't seem so bad.

There's still something missing, though, and it takes Mike a few minutes to get his thoughts together enough to realize that he wants to be kissing Brooks more than he is. He'd never been a big kisser with Sasha--they made out sometimes, but it was more of straight to the fucking kind of thing, and that's the closest thing he has to compare this with. He pries his fingers off Brooks's shoulder and cups the back of Brooks's neck and pulls him down and kisses him, needy and messy, and it's _so good_ that Mike shivers.

He's closer to the edge than he even realizes, because when Brooks reaches down between them and wraps his hand around Mike's hand, around his dick, Mike shudders and bucks up helplessly, mind going blank and electricity buzzing through his veins. He's chanting Brooks's name, low and rough and desperate, and Brooks is mouthing at his jaw, biting his collarbone, licking his throat, and then Mike's coming, hot and messy and loud, arched up and shuddering and breathless and it's good, it's perfect, and he never wants to come down.

It's even better when he looks up and sees the way Brooks is looking at him, like maybe Mike's the best damn thing he's ever seen. Mike pulls their hands away from his dick just so he can entangle his fingers with Brooks's and hold on tight as Brooks starts to lose it. His hips stutter against Mike's ass, the slow and steady rhythm giving way to instinctive thrusting, and Mike rides it out and watches Brooks fall apart, eyes going vague as he whines and comes, deep inside Mike.

Mike catches Brooks as he half-collapses on top of him, tilting him slightly to the side so he doesn't knock the wind out of Mike. He's breathing hard enough without the full weight of his teammate landing on his ribs.

"Jesus," Brooks says after a few seconds of panting.

"We need to do that _all the time_ ," Mike agrees. Brooks nods, looking slightly stunned, and nuzzles Mike's shoulder before pulling out with a sigh.

Mike feels empty and disconnected and--now that he's coming off the high--a little sore, and he tugs Brooks closer and holds onto him even as Brooks ties off the condom and lobs it into Mike's wastebasket. Brooks gives him a fond look and kisses him lightly, shifting until they're curled together more comfortably. Mike's kind of a mess, come on his stomach and sweat everywhere, but he just wants to bask in the afterglow for a while, and Brooks seems to be down with that.

It feels like Mike should be thinking about this, coming to some sort of post-sex epiphany, but there's no big revelation, just this: _Mike wants this_. He isn't quite ready to say "forever" yet, but, well. He's already told Brooks that he's in love with him, so maybe forever isn't that far-fetched. For now he'll take things as they come.

Eventually the stickiness and dried sweat win out over the post-coital bliss and they roll out of Mike's bed and head into his bathroom to clean up. Mike winces as he walks, more sore than he'd realized, and Brooks gives him a concerned look and drops his hand to rub Mike's lower back.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just a little sore," he says. When Brooks's expression darkens slightly, Mike sighs and says, "Good sore. Stop worrying."

"Stop making me worry and maybe I will," Brooks says, but he's laughing.

"You'd be bored if I did that," Mike says, and Brooks shrugs.

"Maybe. Probably."

Once they're clean, they crawl back into Mike's bed, Mike kicking off the messy sheet and Brooks pulling up Mike's comforter to cover them both. Mike feels a little thrill of happiness at the fact that he didn't have to ask Brooks to stay, that he just assumed that was how this would go. Brooks catches his expression and kisses him again, soft and sweet.

"As long as you want me here, I'm here," Brooks says.

Mike doesn't say, "always", but he doesn't have to, really. It's there in the way he tugs Brooks's arm around him, the way he tangles their fingers together, the way Brooks kisses the back of his neck and makes Mike melt back into him.

There's going to be hell to pay when they wake up, angry coaches and freaked out teammates, but Mike's pretty sure that it's worth it.

  
_and onto infinity_  


Mike and Brooks settle into domesticity surprisingly quickly. Mike's never really thought of himself as the kind of guy to settle down, not yet anyway, but he wouldn't trade this in for any amount of perceived freedom. It's good, waking up to Brooks making pancakes in the morning on their days off, curling up with him on the couch after practice to wind down, falling asleep with Brooks warm against him. He definitely wouldn't trade the sex in for anything, because it's only gotten better with time, something that he hadn't even been sure was possible.

Still, sometimes it feels like something's missing. Brooks seems happy enough; he's pretty much moved full time into Mike's apartment, and his own is now mostly used as their practice space and extra beer and cereal storage facility. But he's never really _said_ anything, not the way Mike has--and does, because sometimes he just can't help but blurt out "I love you". Mike doesn't doubt that Brooks is in this for real, but sometimes he kind of wishes that Brooks would say something back. It's not something Mike's willing to push, though, because the last thing he wants to do is make Brooks feel pressured. He's no one's clingy girlfriend, but he's starting to understand how they feel.

They're curled up together now, giving into the lethargy that comes with truly mind-blowing sex, and Mike's trying not to have doubts. Brooks is stroking his hip lightly, fond and possessive and that should be enough, everything he has should be enough.

It's not, though.

"Brooks," he says, tentative. "Are you happy? With me?"

"Mm," Brooks says drowsily, a breath of air against Mike's shoulder. "Yeah. Why?"

"No reason," Mike says, already feeling like he's being invasive.

Brooks kisses his shoulder and rolls Mike over to look at him, a serious expression on his face.

"Are _you_ happy?" he asks, like there's any doubt.

"Of course," Mike says. He smiles, but he can feel that it's a bit rough around the edges, and Brooks narrows his eyes.

"Mike--"

"I just--" Mike says, and then stops and bites his lip. "You know you don't have to stay, right? If you're not really interested in this?"

"What-- Mike, _I want this_. Why would I leave?" Brooks looks surprised and hurt and Mike already regrets this entire conversation, even as good as it feels to have that reassurance.

"No, sorry, I shouldn't have said anything," he says, and leans in for a kiss, but Brooks puts a hand on his shoulder and stops him.

"Don't brush this off if you're seriously worried," Brooks says. "I mean it. I love what we have."

"But do you love _me_?" Mike asks before he can think better of it. He sees everything click together behind Brooks's eyes and looks away.

"Oh," says Brooks, and Mike thinks, well, so much for that. Then Brooks has his hand under Mike's chin, tilting Mike's head until he can look Mike straight in the eye.

"Yes. I love you. And I'm sorry I haven't said it yet," Brooks says. He looks affectionate and sheepish all at once. "This is new for me too, you know. But I do love you."

"Oh," Mike says, and then Brooks is kissing him, warm and soft.

It may have taken a while, and there were definitely some bad decisions involved, but Mike wouldn't take any of it back for anything.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a fill for the hockeyanonememe. This is unbetaed and I always meant to do a better draft of it, but that never happened.


End file.
